


Aria

by childhoodlight



Category: The X-Files RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childhoodlight/pseuds/childhoodlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks back, and sees the red waves of her hair bleed onto falling snow, blue eyes challenging him and choking him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aria

He looks back, and sees the red waves of her hair bleed onto falling snow, blue eyes challenging him and choking him.

He looks back, and sees twenty-hour long working days, heavy eyelids and hard, hard work.

When someone asks him about his life twenty years ago, all he can think of is her. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to be tied to her in this way, doesn't want his mind to go there, but he doesn't remember anything else. Just her young face, blue eyes and short, red hair.

He looks back

and he sees her.

(It went up and it went down yet it always, always went forward. 

Beneath the need to shut her the fuck up and go back home, the melody of their relationship always went forward, stable in a way that them themselves never will be. Nothing in his life, has or ever will, manage to stay as solid as their relationship to each other, whether it was dominated by hate or love or need or fear or understanding or exhaustion. It was there, it was the air they breathed to stay standing, it was his head falling onto a soft pillow at three in the morning, it was her barging into his room at 5 am, shaking him awake and laughing straight in his face. It was him throwing water at her, holding onto her, her small frame struggling to break free. It was her gaze always lingering a bit longer than his. It was his hand, uninvited, on her thigh when no one saw.

He doesn't miss her, doesn't miss her thunderous and completely carefree laughter, doesn't miss her slighly off accent, doesn't miss how she always reeked of smoke and perfume in a sickly combination that always overhwelmed his sences too much; he does not miss any of it.

Sometimes, he closes his eyes, and her face invades her mind.

She was everything he wanted to break free from.

And now he is free.)

Her gaze still lingers, his hands still wander, but he only sees her twice a year.

"Hi," she breathes. Her hair is blond now, and it's the first time he sees it up close with his own eyes.

His stomach flips violently, because no he doesn't miss her, doesn't miss her humor, that laughter, how short she is when standing next to him, the remnants of her annoying naivité, her blue eyes, her smell, how her thoughts always go the same direction as his, doesn't, doesn't, doesn't. But her hair is never going to contrast in the same way as twenty years ago when they were walking from her trailer to his in a snowy December. It won't ever again flash before his eyes and remind him of exhaustion and fury and complete safety, he can't look at this new hair of hers any longer, because it reminds him too much of the fact that he's old.

And he still can't decide whether he hates her or loves her. All he knows that he can never be rid of her.

"Hey," he answers, and they embrace awkwardly, but they don't let go.

"I miss your hair," he says, and he can feel her surprise beneath him, face tucked against his chest. She doesn't laugh.

"I don't," she says.


End file.
